


Away in a Bookshop

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Black Books
Genre: FicWar2013, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran is hurt. Manny and Bernard rescue her. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away in a Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> Black Books characters do not belong to me and I am making no money off this work of fan fiction.
> 
> Betaed with thanks by persephone20.
> 
> * * *

Manny put down the phone and turned to Bernard. He looked considerably worried behind the beard, as far as Bernard could tell, Manny’s facial expressions being relatively indistinguishable.

‘Fran’s in hospital,’ Manny said.

‘What happened?’

‘She fell off her high heels and broke her arm.’

Bernard started digging through the desk and produced his keys with a flourish.

Manny gave him an odd look. ‘Car keys? I didn’t know you had a car.’

‘Of course I have a car, you stupid fat hobbit, where else would I sleep when the shop’s being fumigated? Come on, let’s go, we need to get her out.’

‘I didn’t know you’d seen _Lord of the Rings_. I thought you hated the cinema.’

‘ _Read_ , Manny, _read_ , it’s a _book_.’ Bernard ran one hand through his hair and gestured to the door with the other. ‘God only knows what they’re doing to her in that place.’

‘Why do you care so much?’ Manny asked, letting Bernard shove him outside.

For the first time, Bernard didn’t know what to say. ‘I just do. Shut up!’

Manny wouldn’t let him drive for some absurd reason (his special cocoa was _barely_ alcoholic, for God’s sake), and Bernard drummed his fingers on the dashboard all the way.

‘Why, though?’ Manny persisted.

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you want to get her out of there?’

‘Hospitals are bad for people. You don’t get any sleep and the food is dreadful. Would you _please_ speed up, we’re being overtaken by snails. Dead ones.’

* * *

As far as Fran was concerned, she was fine up till the point where Bernard and Manny appeared in the doorway of her room. Her arm was reasonably comfortable in a cast and she’d been given some _stellar_ painkillers, which were interacting in an interesting way with the wine she’d denied drinking (it _hurt_ , come on). Granted, she hadn’t had anything to eat yet. and was eyeing the jelly cup at the next patients’ bed, but it refused to levitate over to her. Maybe her super powers had been deactivated when she fell down.

But then there was a crash from the hallway, and a familiar Irish definitely-not-lilt berating the crasher, and then there they were.

‘Fran, are you all right?’ Manny asked.

‘We’re getting you out of here,’ Bernard said as though he was bailing her out of jail instead of taking her home from hospital, and briskly yanked her to her feet.

‘Ow!’

‘That’s her broken arm,’ Manny pointed out helpfully.

Bernard switched arms and towed Fran out to the car. Manny carried her shoes and handbag; after about thirty seconds he was half-carrying her as well as her stockinged feet met the asphalt outside.

‘Why’d you bring Jesus to save me? I don’t need saving...’

‘That’s _Manny_ ,’ Bernard said, peering into her face. ‘Are her pupils meant to be this big and black?’

‘You smell like candy canes,’ Fran said, attempting to rub her nose against his. ‘Are you Santa?’

‘It’s peppermint schnapps,’ Manny said. ‘Bernard, are you sure we should take her without telling someone?’

‘I think,’ Fran announced, ‘that if Santa and Jesus came to get me, it must be for a reason that is far, far beyond the hospital administration's purview.’

She heard Santa Bernard -- Saint Bernard, that was funny -- grumble, ‘I want whatever she’s had.’

* * *

Navigating the stairs to Fran’s flat would be impossible in her current state, so Manny drove them back to the bookshop and carried her in, settling her on the couch. Bernard banged around in the kitchen and complained that his cocoa had gone cold and that the kettle was empty. Manny bit his tongue, refilled the kettle, and poured the offending cocoa down the sink.

‘That’s a waste of schnapps,’ Bernard grumped.

‘You had _one_ shot in there.’

‘That’s what _you_ think.’

Manny refused to take the conversation any further and went back out to Fran, just in time to stop her rolling off the couch.

‘I will -- I can fly, Jesus, it’s all right, I won’t fall.’

Manny tucked a blanket around her as tightly as he could to keep her from falling, considered the situation for a moment, and then laid a second folded blanket on the floor beside the couch, just in case.

‘Jesus, where did Santa go, I want my presents.’ Fran gave him a forlorn look.

‘Santa’s... busy.’ Santa was being foul-mouthed in the kitchen about the cocoa tin and the difficulty involved in opening it, accompanied by loud bashing noises.

‘We have to sing before Santa comes, anyway.’ She grabbed his arm, fingers digging in, eyes wild with urgency and morphine. ‘He won’t come if we don’t sing. Will you sing with me, Jesus?’

‘Um.’ Manny prised her fingers off his arm and stood up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Don’t die in a horror movie!’ Her eyes were falling closed, despite the panic in her voice.

‘Bernard, she wants me to _sing_.’ Manny could tell there was something terribly wrong with his facial expression, because Bernard actually looked concerned for a moment.

Then Bernard threw the empty milk carton at him, restoring the status quo. ‘Then sing, you mop-faced moron.’

‘She wants me to sing because Santa will come if we sing. And you’re Santa.’

Bernard rummaged in the fridge for the new milk carton, topped off the bubbling mess in the saucepan (a quarter water, half milk, and a quarter cocoa, as far as Manny could tell, and who knew how much schnapps), and then generously threw the new milk carton at Manny as well.

Manny gave up and went back to the couch. Of the two of them, the drug-addled one babbling about singing and Jesus was less obnoxious.

* * *

Bernard rattled the mugs onto a tray, adjusted his beard, and took a deep breath, which was disappointingly fresh and contained no nicotine, before proceeding out to the shop. Manny was rumbling through what sounded like ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ but could just as easily have been ‘Jingle Bells’.

Manny stopped singing at the sight of Bernard. ‘Why’ve you got sponges on your chin?’

‘I’m Santa,’ Bernard muttered. ‘Don’t disillusion her.’

Fran opened her eyes and glared at Manny. ‘Keep singing, Jesus!’ Then her eyes lit upon Bernard and her mouth dropped into an O. ‘ _Santa_! You came!’ She hastily shut her eyes again. ‘I’m not supposed to see you.’

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Bernard said. ‘I need to know what you want for Christmas, lit-- young lady.’

Fran attempted to sit up, peeking through her eyelashes. ‘Oh, Santa, didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Um... No. One of the elves lost it. I came to ask in person.’ Bernard sank to his knees on the blanket beside the couch, next to Manny. ‘Cocoa, Jesus?’

Manny took the mug and gave him what was, even for Manny, an odd look. Bernard disregarded it. ‘So, Fran? Christmas wishes?’

‘You even know my name!’ Fran smiled at him rapturously. It was almost worth having sponges of dubious origin taped to his chin. ‘Oh, Santa, all I want for Christmas is to have a lovely party with my very best friends.’

‘I see... and what are their names?’

‘Mernard and Banny.’ Fran frowned. ‘No... Manard and Benny. No...’

‘That’s all right,’ Bernard said in what he hoped was a benevolent tone. ‘I’m Santa, I’m sure I can work it out from there. Ho, ho,’ he added.

‘A _lovely_ party,’ Fran emphasised. ‘With wine. And biscuits. And wine. And tistlemoe.’

‘Tistlemoe...?’

‘She means mistletoe,’ Manny whispered. Bernard shot a glance at him.

‘Why mistletoe?’

‘Or reindeer!’ Fran said. ‘I’m not fussy. And wine!’

* * *

She was having such a lovely time. Everything was floaty and nice and there was probably a reason that her arm was so heavy. She looked at it.

‘Why is my arm wrapped in heavy snow? Is this a Christmas joke?’

Jesus patted her shoulder. ‘Yes, my child.’ Santa elbowed him. ‘I’m just joining in,’ Jesus said defensively.

‘It must be nearly -- nearly midnight.’ Fran fought a yawn and lost. ‘Shouldn’t you be going soon, Santa?’

‘Yes, Santa,’ Jesus said.

‘Soon, Fran. The elves need to harness the reindeer first.’

‘What is _wrong_ with you?’ Jesus whispered.

‘‘S nothing wrong with Santa... Santa’s lovely.’ Fran leaned over precariously and this time succeeded in rubbing her nose on Bernard’s. ‘Caney cands!’

‘Fran, you need to go to sleep,’ Jesus said firmly. ‘Santa has to go and he can’t magic himself away if you’re watching.’ He pushed her back down against the cushion and tucked her blanket in again.

‘Sing for me,’ Fran murmured drowsily, letting her eyes fall closed. Her eyelids felt like they had been painted with cement, and cement was a terrible idea for eyeshadow, her make-up remover wouldn’t get it off, but she was so comfortable...

She heard the two of them whispering, and then _Santa himself_ started singing to her. His accent sounded wrong for the North Pole, but he even knew the third verse of ‘Silent Night’, and Fran drifted into sleep with the last lines still sounding in her ears.

* * *

‘I had no idea you knew any Christmas carols,’ Manny said, finishing his cocoa.

Bernard ripped his sponge off and threw it in the general direction of the kitchen. ‘How can anyone not, they’re in every bloody shopping centre and those stupid brass band idiots set up across the road at least once every year.’ He got up, half-heartedly brushing his knees off, and started scuffling in his desk drawer.

‘You’ve a lovely singing voice.’

‘Shut up, Jesus.’

Manny accepted the admonition, as usual, and took the mugs back to the kitchen, where he would have rinsed them except that the sink was full of spoons and mostly empty wine bottles. He settled for running water into them and hoping they wouldn’t congeal too horribly before he could clean up.

‘Should we tell her it’s not Christmas yet?’

‘No, no, let her sleep.’

When he got back out to the shop, Bernard was kneeling next to Fran again, and for a second Manny thought it looked like Fran was going to get her ‘tistlemoe’ wish after all. But then Bernard moved away, and Manny saw the giant black rubber spider dangling right over Fran’s face.

‘Um. Bernard?’

Bernard smirked at him. ‘It may not be Christmas yet, but Halloween’s next week.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And if you tell her I sang to her, I’ll put a real one in your bed.’

‘Message received, Mr Claus.’

He just wouldn’t tell Bernard about the voice recording he’d made on his phone. That could wait until December. It would make a lovely treat at Fran’s lovely party.


End file.
